


H&W: Defining Inevitable

by thisiswhatthewatergaveme



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Childhood, Fluff, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-25
Updated: 2011-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-28 03:30:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/303245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisiswhatthewatergaveme/pseuds/thisiswhatthewatergaveme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been ten years, and Sherlock is a very happy hermit, thank you, and he doesn't need anyone else. Even if he does bump into John. It's not like he remembers him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	H&W: Defining Inevitable

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Alison! Fantastic, meretricious, and a happy new year! :) Merry Christmas! I hope you like it!

 

 

  
The strange boy was there and John was four. The first time they met, that is.

John was a Big Boy and, as such, was allowed to play outside the gates. So, when no one was watching, he unlatched the gate and slipped out.

He stood in the middle of the little brook, feet planted astride moss-covered stones. He was five years old, and he was King of the Forest, because Harry made him a hat that said so. But Harry was eight, and off playing _dolls_ with _girls_ , even though John had promised that she could be princess, and how could being a princess lose to _dolls_? It didn’t make any sense. Stupid sister.

A rustle in the bushes made him look up. That, and a minuscule sneeze.

Someone-- someone little-- stood stopped in the foliage, pale skin and long dark hair standing out sharply from the leaves.

“Hallo?” John called, waving. “Who’re you?”

“Sherlock,” the kid squeaked, stepping away from the little tree.

John thought for a moment. “Is that a girl’s name or a boy’s name?”

“A _boy_. I’m a _boy_.” Sherlock looked, John thought, like he was about to cry, so John stepped across the stones onto the bank and walked over to him.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m John.” Sherlock just stared up at him, looking, John thought, kind of lonely. And John had a whole kingdom to share.

“Hey, Sherlock.”

“Y-Yeah?”

  
“You wanna be the princess?”

“... Okay.”

 

 

 

 

-*-

 

“Yes, of-- no. I don’t _know_. Don’t be stupid, of course there are things that _even I don’t_ \-- Listen. Molly. You’ll be fine. I have absolute faith in you, because I-- Hello? _Hello_?”

Sherlock stared at the phone, for a moment, and then snapped it shut with a sigh. Some people were foolish. Even _he_ couldn’t help that.

“Who was that?” Mycroft asked from across the table, not looking the slightest bit interested. Honestly, Sherlock would have to get hit by a busbefore Mycroft paid him any mind.

“Molly Hooper,” Sherlock said shortly, turning back to his pages.

“Ah. A tutoree, is it?”

“I don’t understand why you ask if you already _know_.”

Mycroft managed to drag his eyes away from his work for a moment to regard Sherlock over his textbook. “You know, it wouldn’t kill you to accept her advances.”

“Unless it _did_ ,” Sherlock retorted.

“But it _wouldn’t_ ,” Mycroft insisted, laying down his pen. Sherlock eyed it warily. Mycroft sans pen was a terrifying prospect. It meant intended conversation. “You know, sometimes, I--”

“Oh, don’t _start_ \--” Too late. He’d started. Sherlock lowered his head to his arms, ready for the onslaught.

  
“ _Worry_ about you, little brother. You’re brilliant, yes, and no one denies it, but you never _socialize_.”

  
“I socialize.” Petulance be damned. Sherlock raised his head from his arms, sniffing. He socialized. All his _professors_ knew him by name, for one. Wasn’t that something? And not to mention the students he tutored... maybe not the ones who left in tears at the end of their first sessions. He had everything he needed-- his books, his stipend, and his regular dose of caffeine. He even had excess. In the form of a brother who wouldn’t bloody stop _talking_.

“Come on, Sherlock,” he wheedled, psychology courses on full-blast. “You need to get out more. Exert you inner social self. For example, the koala bear--”

Sherlock held up a hand. “I’m stopping you there. There is no _possible_ way for you to make that make any sense.”

“Who’s your best friend, Sherlock?” he asked patiently.

Sherlock opened his mouth automatically, and then stopped himself. “I... _had_ one,” he said slowly, voice measured and eyes narrowed.

  
“John, yes?” Mycroft’s smile was slow, and a lot like the sort of smile a snake might get sneaking up on a mongoose. “And when was the last time you _saw_ John, hm? How long’s it been?”

“Ten years. Or so,” Sherlock said stiffly. Wasn’t he supposed to be doing something? He reached his hand into the bag by his chair, avoiding Mycroft’s eye.  
“Ten years,” Mycroft repeated, sitting back, satisfied. Now Sherlock could feel eyes on them, and every pointed eye felt like hot drops of pity against the back of his neck. “And it’s still him, is it? Face it. You, my dear boy, are not moving on.”

That was enough. Conversation over. Sherlock stood, without a word, and pulled his bag along with him, slinging it over his shoulder. He paused only to shovel his half of the library table into his bag, and turned to leave.

“I-- Sherlock?”

“I,” he said slowly, voice even and controlled, “Am _not_ your _dear boy_ , Mycroft, and _you_ are not some aging politician. Now please, continue on your well-adjusted way and leave me to my own devices. Thank you.”

And Sherlock left with the added satisfaction of the image of Mycroft’s shocked expression to escort him outside. The mongoose did always beat the snake, after all.

-*-

  
Suppose that, when they met, was, to be honest, quite a dear little accident. All Sherlock had wanted was a packet of chips (because when he got the ones at the corner someone he’d offended always ended up attempting to start a fight, and there are only so many bruises that good chips are worth) and all John had wanted was a cab (because if he made it to the coffee shop in _fifteen minutes_ , Sarah would probably still be there, and then they could fall in love and then they’d be married and things would be utterly perfect and, no, he was not a girl), and what n _either_ had wanted was to end up flat on their respective arses in the middle of the street, one cab-less, and the other, hungry.

  
Sherlock’s response was a very eloquent, “Ow.”

Suppose Sherlock knocked himself flat out in the landing and John had had to stand over him for those few moments, attempting to rouse him and stop him from the inconvenience of dying. John had plasters and disinfectant in his bag, but he hadn’t wanted to patch anything up if the other boy would only flail around in a panic upon waking up with his pants rolled out of the way. And, besides, didn’t he recognize the boy he’d just knocked out? Black hair, pale skin, cheekbones like broken china.

Suppose Sherlock had opened his eyes to fairly concerned chestnut-blue ones and, because he was Sherlock and not someone normal and appreciative, rolled away from him (med-student, third year, because no one else carried around a boatload of plasters and disinfectant unless they were going to war on a germ species) and got to his feet, swaying only slightly. Slightly more so, after taking in the dirty blond hair and the... the _chin_. Chins don’t change. Neither do noses. And that chin and that nose together... Sherlock nodded, once, curtly (to the other man’s “God, I’m sorry, mate” and “you okay?” and “you sure?” and “sorry”) and walked away. Because things happened like that. Quickly, inexplicably, and forgettably.   

Perhaps they didn’t see each other again, and the accident was left to just that-- an accident on a street corner in early fall. Only, it wasn’t, not really.

Sherlock would later put it down to wishful thinking or self-fulfilling prophecy, if he believed in such things, because Sherlock wasn’t an idiot. Ten years is a long time, but chins and noses and the strangest eye color he’s ever seen (graying waves in a deep blue ocean) don’t change. And Sherlock tends to be good at remembering things, especially when it comes to people. Especially when it’s John.

Or, on the other hand, he could’ve been imagining all of the above. Maybe wishful thinking and delusions were as closely linked as his fourth form psychology teacher had thought. Maybe he’d just imagined John and then he _was_ , like a pond in the middle of the desert or a cab in the middle of traffic. So Sherlock pushed the topic to the farthest, darkest corner of him mind, in the filing cabinet, right next to reality television and the solar system, and moved on. It was really about time. Mycroft would be proud.

And that resolution would have held, if it weren’t for that one time at a corner shop, because Sherlock needed pencils and John was looking for a notebook, and they bumped into each other ( _bumped_ being the operative word, as another collision would not have been quite as welcome) at the corner of the aisle and Sherlock was gone before John could so much as compliment his scarf. This encounter left John perplexed and Sherlock out of breath.

There was another chance meeting in the library, because that was where Sherlock lived (it was certainly easier than the dining halls. Books can’t throw things at your head, with the possible exceptions of words and facts and figures and theories, but those could join in with his and make for happy hours. The last time he stayed too long in dining, it took him a week to extract all of the spaghetti from his hair. It had been unpleasant.). This time, he hadn’t seen the other person until he was right over him, blocking Sherlock’s light and clearing his throat. To his credit, half a conversation had made it’s way out (“‘Morning.” “Hi. Sorry, got to dash. I, uh. Left my riding crop in the mortuary.” “You _what_?”) before Sherlock slipped away again. He was getting to be quite good at the slipping process. All it required was a little bit of wiggle and bluster.

The worst one yet was that one time (or the second, or the fourth, or the sixteenth) that Sherlock was boxed in a blind corner of the maths building, Sebastian hanging back because he was a bastard but also a coward, and Arthur and Ralph hauling back for one more hit. In Sherlock’s defense, he put up a good fight. He didn’t bother fighting fair, because, frankly, they were both easily twice his weight, even if he did have the height, and besides, _they weren’t_ fighting fair, because he’d done _nothing_ , only told the truth, because wasn’t that kind? Wasn’t that what he was meant to do? If Rhonda wasn’t quite as _honest_ a girl as Arthur apparently believed her to be, shouldn’t he be informed? Apparently, as a meaty fist met his sternum and a second made friends with his ribs, Arthur didn’t think so. It was lucky, Sherlock thought, vision swimming in auto-response tears and mouth swimming in trauma-response blood, that he hadn’t mentioned that it was _Ralph_ who was in on the con. Oh, well. Cheers for trying.

“Oi. What’re you lot doing?” And this was the part where things got worse. Arthur and Ralph dropped their hams and turned around.  
“Who’s that, creep?” Arthur asked, genuine curiosity down there somewhere under all that derision.  
“Nobody,” Sherlock wheezed. “I don’t _know_.” He could take them out. Two quick jabs left, sternum, kidney, and he’d drop Ralph in twelve seconds. Arthur, that would take a little longer… He rearranged his legs so that, with one kick, he could snap back his knee and hook his foot around Arthur’s, and that would take him to the ground. Yes. That would work. Likelihood of success? High.

  
“It’s not like he has _friends_ ,” Ralph sneered. Sherlock opened his mouth to snap back, because _really,_ he _had_ friends--

“ _What._ Are you _doing_?” And because fate tended to like being a little bastard, and Sherlock couldn’t-- couldn’t _breathe, Christ_ , it was _John_ who walked up to the rugby boys and their lackey, John who stared them down until they walked away, John who helped Sherlock to the ground when his legs slid out from under him. It was Sherlock who avoided his eyes like death.

“I’m _fine,”_ he tried to say, but it came out as a wheeze, and his attempts at pulling his arm from John’s grasp were feeble at best.

“What was that about?” John asked sharply. “Why were they doing that to you?”

“What? Oh, assaulting me?” Sherlock waved the question away faintly. “His... his girlfriend and his friend have something going on. I simply attempted to inform him. He didn’t take it well.”

“Two against one, though. That’s hardly fair.” When John frowned, his whole countenance frowned with him. Even his jumper looked cross.  

  
“Don’t worry about it,” Sherlock said brusquely, and, with one mighty heave, hauled himself up to his feet, trying to pretend that he was, in fact, at sea, and it wasn’t just his head that sent him reeling. And that twinge across his ribs. And maybe that his nose had started bleeding.

“ _Mate_.” He tipped his head to this side, glancing back at John, who stood against the wall, watching him exasperatedly. “Can you just stop, for a moment? You’re a mess.”

“Well _that’s_ rather forward of you.”

“I mean it.”

The sad bit was, Sherlock knew that. He could tell, because it was obvious. John was one of _those_ people, the kind, generous, pitying ones, trying to make life a little bit better for whosoever they came in contact with. He was probably an _optimist_. Sherlock _hated_ optimists. How he’d let it blind him at nine, he had _no_ idea, but he was lonely and bored and John had a castle in the woods, or something. “Listen,” he said, as coldly as he could when every breath sent another sharp spasm of pain through his chest. “As much as I appreciate this, I would _really_ rather be left alone.”  
“Okay then.”  
“And I don’t-- sorry?” Sherlock blinked.  
“It’s just,” John said, measured and easy, “you seem like you’ve got everything under control. Here.” He stuck a handkerchief out to Sherlock, and he took it, a bit too unsettled to do much else. John tucked his hands into his pockets and shrugged, stepping out from the wall. “You’ve got everything under control. God knows you handled that lot--” he nodded after the direction that the rugby louts had trotted “to the best of your ability. And, hey, they might’ve beaten you, but at least you got in a few good hits. You certainly don’t need me.” He started to walk away.

Sherlock glanced down at the cloth in his hand and, after a moment, swiped away the small trickle of blood from his nose, and the blood from the corners of his lips.

“Oh, and by the way,” John called back from a few paces away. Sherlock looked up, folding up the thin white cloth. “I’m going for tea. You want to come?”

“I don’t drink--” John turned around and raised an eyebrow. “Fine,” Sherlock said lamely, and followed, tucking the cloth into his coat pocket.

It was, in short, the beginning of things.

-+-+-+-

John approved of being properly English. ‘Proper’ meaning tea and bread and jam at teatime, and not what Sherlock insisted of having (“Coffee, black, two sugars.”) in the café down the block and around the corner.

“It’s _teatime_ , Sherlock.”

“I don’t drink tea. It’s vile.”

“ _Vile_.” John blinked. “But you... you’re _English_.”

“Yes, well.”

And then there was silence. The sort of silence that led to nothing good and had the added tendency of feasting on conversation and normalcy, and wearing a lovely chat down to the bare bones of awkwardness.

That being said, Sherlock sipped his coffee.

“So,” John asked finally, putting down his mug. “How _did_ you know?”

“Her left forefinger,” Sherlock said automatically, and then snapped his head up. He could quite easily see a superficially pleasant evening going south after this. “Well, I mean, I saw them together. Very clandestine.”

But John either didn’t or wouldn’t hear his amendment. He stared at Sherlock, brow furrowed. “You saw her-- hang on. What about it? Did he write his name in hearts?”

“Don’t be foolish,” Sherlock sniffed. “The nail was chipped.”

If John’s eyes continued to narrow at this rate, he’d be blind in a moment. Then, Sherlock thought, maybe he could slip out the back and head of the ensuing conversation. “A chipped nail. That happens.”

“He had a fleck of the varnish in his hair. Coupled with matching bruises on their shoulders--”

“No, no, wait.” John raised his hands. “There’s plenty that could mean. Perhaps he got something caught in his hair and she fished it out. Perfectly platonic. And there’s no way you could tell who made what bruises--”

“They were bite marks,” Sherlock said slowly, affronted. “And both have very distinct teeth. His right incisor has an overlap; her front teeth are bowed inwards. And deceptively large.”

John blinked. “That’s...” That was his thinking face. Thought unbidden, Sherlock choked on his coffee. “That’s _mental_.” John threw his head back and laughed, long and loud.

All Sherlock could do was frown down at his coffee. He didn’t look _that_ different, ten years along. Just taller, maybe, hair longer. If John was going to remember him, he would’ve already. Why he actually _cared_ was food for thought. Sherlock didn’t _care_. Caring was inane.

“Listen,” John said finally, the sound of his laughter still echoing at the back of Sherlock’s skull. “I’m sorry if this feels like an odd question, but do we, er... Know each other?”

“Not really,” Sherlock said quickly, playing with the edge of his cup. Caring was tantamount to sentimentality, and Sherlock _did not_. “We’ve just bumped into each other five times--” Four, it was _four_. John didn’t notice the stumble. “And you seem to end up everywhere I do.” He shrugged. “The campus seems to be shrinking.”

John wasn’t having it. Sherlock made the mistake of looking up, and his hands froze. He’d been told that he had an almost (well, absolutely) creepy staring habit. John’s was worse. When he looked, he _looked_. He didn’t glance, and he didn’t observe, but he looked like he actually _cared_ what he was looking at, like he could read it like it was a person and not a manual. It was making Sherlock distinctly uncomfortable. “I’m John,” he said softly. _I know._ “What’s your name?”

Sherlock never did like the idea of all his cards on table. “Sebastian,” he said, thinking on his feet. He highly doubted that the prat would miss it. “Nice to properly meet you, John.” He took the hand offered him (calluses-- manual labor? Not likely. Weight training, more so.) and shook once, firmly. It felt like friendship. Sherlock’s cheek twitched. He bit down on the offending muscle

“You as well,” John said, smiling back, completely oblivious. He held up his mug. “Cheers.”

 

Sherlock indulged.

-*-

“No, I-- Molly, that sounds lovely, but I really can’t-- why? I... I’m practicing tonight. My violin needs… Yes. Perhaps after-- Molly? Hello?” Good lord. It felt like all their conversations ended like that.

  
Sherlock sighed and dropped into a chair, kicking his legs up onto the arm. His violin was... He glanced around his room, taking in the broken boxes, old graded papers, older newspaper articles. It was here somewhere.

His phone rang again. The tone was shrill and sharp, sharper than his usual ringtone... He raised the display and frowned. That would by why.

“Hello, Mycroft.”

  
“Sherlock. What’s this I hear about young John being present at our current institution?”

“I’m hanging up on you if you continue talking like that,” Sherlock warned, getting to his feet and beginning to shift through the rubbish. When was the last time he’d even _seen_ his instrument? Last week, surely.

“Fine, fine. I only called to ask if you’ve seen him.”

Sherlock sighed, shoving an old juice carton off the largest pile, a small mountain slowly forming in the corner. He stepped back and cocked his head. Perhaps if he barged through the _middle_ first...

“ _Sherlock_.”

“Yes, he’s at this university, and you already _know_ I’ve seen him, don’t pretend your little network hasn’t reported that back to you yet,” Sherlock said quickly, thrusting his arm into the pile until he was shoulder deep. _Ooh_. There was that sweater he thought he’d lost. That was alright. It had cats all over it, anyways. He hated cats.

“Fair enough.” Mycroft could still manage to sound smug through the tinny reception Sherlock got in his little room. “I just thought you might want to know that he needs a physics tutor.”

“No!” Sherlock yelped, tugging his arm out sharply. Oh, _that_ was going to bruise. Sherlock pulled his arm all the way back, violin perched on his shoulder. There. He weighed the offending pile up with his eyes. Maybe a bit of a cleaning was in order.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed, and Sherlock would swear he could hear the pencil falling. “I really think you should consider this--”

“Mycroft? I’m hanging up now.”

“You--”

“Sorry, what was that?” Sherlock snapped the phone shut. “There. Problem resolved.” He stopped talking when he realized his only audience was the world’s loneliest violin.

-*-

 

Weird. That’s what the whole week had been. _Weird_. John slid into the booth opposite Harry, pulling the menu towards himself.

 

“Fantastic,” he said, grinning up at his sister. “I’m starved. What’s up?”

 

He looked up when there was no answer. Harry was staring down at her phone, brow furrowed. Huh. Usually, she’d be all over that question, telling him about the newest item of her fancy-- was it Clara, this week? He was pretty sure it was Clara.

 

“Harry?”

 

She blinked and looked up at him, half-smiling. “Sorry, what?”

 

“Who was that?” John asked, nodding down to her phone. She flinched, tugging the phone under the table and tucking it back into her pocket. Like _that_ wasn’t conspicuous. John decided against saying anything; she looked sheepish enough as it was. Like a child caught doing something most definitely not allowed.

 

“Um, no one! Really. It’s not... um.” She blushed and looked down at her fingers, running them over her wrists. “I might have a date with Clara.”

 

“Yeah?” John laughed, relaxing. “That’s brilliant! Was that her, just now?”

 

Harry puffed out a gust of air, ballooning her cheeks. John peered closer. He recognized that habit. “It was a... mutual friend. Who could be setting us up, a bit.”

 

Oh, yes. That was her ‘I wonder how to break the news that I intend to manipulate him’ look. “Harry,” he said slowly, but his legs tensed, ready to run if turned out to be necessary. And, he figured, taking in the way her eyes danced across the table and refused to meet his, it probably would be. “What exactly did you do?”

 

“Nothing _bad_ ,” she blurted, and then bit her lip. “I mean, it’s just... you _did_ need help in physics, didn’t you?”

 

“It’s not even a proper science! That’s... that’s _maths_ , that is, and I don’t need maths to cut people open. Well...” He rubbed at a spot in the middle of his head that was slowly but surely building a headache the size of France. “I realize maths are necessary, yes. But not physics. I don’t need the momentum of a _bloody_ rock to-- why are we even having this conversation?”

 

“Because I may have put your name down for a tutor-- is that okay? I just thought it could help...” And cue puppy dog eyes. John rolled his. She was eldest. Shouldn’t she carry the maturity card? But it was his own fault, to be honest. He should’ve guessed, as soon as she’d suggested lunch. As soon as she’d said she was _buying_. Harry never bought. She always puppy dogged those massive brown eyes until he gave her what she wanted or passed out from cranial pressure.

 

Palm against France, he nodded. “Yes, Harry. That’s fine. I hope you didn’t make them any promises, though--”

 

“John,” she cut off, giving him a Look. The sort of look that would in no way lead to him winning. “You know you need the help. And I got a special deal, for you, as well. Don’t be ungrateful. Here’s the number.” She shoved a half sheet of paper at him, and then pulled her menu up. “Now order something to eat, you look absolutely famished.”

 

“Actually, I think the word you’re looking for is ‘blindsided.’”

 

“Touchy.”

 

“Surprised. Sprung-upon. Taken advantage of...” He was pretty sure he could keep this going for a while. Or, at the very least, for as long as it took for her to tell him what she refused to, and to explain _why_ she kept glancing down at her phone every thirty seconds. In any case, it made him feel better.

 

 

-*-

 

When John was eleven years old, he had a best friend. His name was Sherlock, and he was brilliant and smart and knew things that nine-year-olds had no business knowing (but neither did eleven-year-olds, so he didn’t know any better) and Sherlock and John had spent hours exploring and reading and playing in the woods behind their houses. They built a fort of fallen branches and called it a castle; John was King and Sherlock had upgraded from Princess to King #2, after they figured out that only girls could be princesses (“And I’m not a _girl_ , John.” “I never called you a _girl_ , _Sherlock_. Fine. Just be King #2.” “Why not #1?” “I’m older. Now go defend the northern border.”). Though they were in different classes, John always thought that Sherlock was smarter than anyone he knew, so it didn’t really matter that he was younger; they’d play together at recess, sit together at lunch, play together after school. They were best friends, the sort of best friends that built forts of beds and chairs and tables, blankets draped over the top, and called them castles. The sort that had a secret language, secret handshake, no secrets between them that the other wouldn’t understand with just a look and a smile and a hand up from the ground. And then John had left, had moved to Leeds and Sherlock had stayed in Ipswich, and that was it, chapter closed. John grew up, and he imagined Sherlock did, too. Imagined he got tall (though not taller than John, never taller) and maybe his hair grew out a little and his ribs didn’t stick out quite as much. John had friends, and an occasional girlfriend, though that never lasted. But he’d really only ever had one best friend.

 

Even if, as he imagined, that wherever the best friend was now, he no longer remembered his name.

 

-*-

 

Sherlock was having a terrible dream, in which nasty, vaguely terrier-shaped mongrels slammed against the side of his head, in some sort of competition involving awkwardly friend-shaped puppets, that all had the name ‘John’ penciled into their name tags, and then the puppets joined in, clapping either side of his head, and smiling the whole time. And the clapping got louder, and louder, and _louder_ \--

 

“ _Stop it_!” Sherlock gasped, throwing himself up. The puppets were gone-- the banging -- knocking, that was knocking, he had front door in here somewhere-- was not. He dug into his pocket for his phone-- his watch had long ago disappeared into the pile vaguely to the left of the television-shaped one. 2:16. He’d been asleep for forty minutes. That was enough to be going off of.

  
He made it to the door quickly enough, considering the obstacle course he had to put himself through to get there. And once he’d thrown it open--

Well. He should have seen this coming.

Harriet Watson stood outside the door. She’d cut her hair, and it was redder than it had been when they were children, but it was her, alright. She stood awkwardly, arms crossed, phone clutched tightly in one hand. She was... A lit major? Something liberal arts-y. Here for a reason-- Mycroft, obviously. She was a year older than John, three more than Sherlock, so she was under enough stress, getting ready to graduate-- why was she here, now? What was Mycroft up to?

 

Sixty seconds were up; Sherlock had counted. See? He wasn’t always creepy. Staring for less than five minutes, that was perfectly allowed.

“Obviously, he has something you want, but what is it?” Curtness, he figured, probably wasn’t, if her startled expression was anything to go bye. “Afternoon, by the way.”

Harriet jumped. “Who?” She eyed him like a fish to a falcon, dilated pupils magnified behind her heavy reading glasses. “Listen, if this is a bad time--”

“I _am_ correct in assuming that Mycroft sent you?”

“Y-yes. How did you...”

“Then you might as well come in, or I’ll never hear the end of it.” Sherlock turned, leaving the door open for her. She followed, and he heard it latch behind him. “If you can find a chair, feel free to use it,” he called back behind him, heading to the back wall in an attempt to follow his own advice. Harriet took one look around and planted her feet firmly, shaking her head.

“That’s alright. Really. I’m Harry, by the way.”

“Harry. Pleasure. I’m Sh-- Sebastian--”

“Hi. How do you find anything in here? It’s a _mess_.” Clearly, neither sibling was as polite as they used to be. Sherlock sniffed.

“It’s not a mess. It’s perfectly organized. Look: music pile. Clothing pile. Miscellaneous Found-Objects pile. I can find whatever I need in a few minutes.”

“I’ll just take your word for it then, shall I? And ‘miscellaneous found objects’-- what does that even--”

She stopped herself, and Sherlock winced as she whipped her neck back around to stare at him. “Hang on. What did you say your name was?”

“Sebastian,” he said weakly, “Um, Sebastian... Van...C--”

“ _Sherlock_ ,” she breathed, and, without missing a beat, did a little jig in the middle of his room. “Oh, my _god_ , you’re _Sherlock_. Sherlock bloody _Holmes_ , wait ‘til I tell John--”

Sherlock shot up from where he was perched, predictably precariously, on a stack of boxes. “No! No. You... you can’t.” Oh, _god_ , he hated that, how his voice got all pleading at the end of the consonants. He cleared his throat and tried again. “There’s no point, he’s probably forgotten me.” Definitely forgotten, more likely, but no need to wallow. “No need bringing up old acquaintances.”

“Acquaintances?” She stared back at him, bemused. “You’re kidding. You two did _everything_ together. You were attached at the hip! How could anyone _not_ remember that?”

“He didn’t,” Sherlock snapped. He didn’t understand what Mycroft could be getting at. Why would he send Harry? Unless he hoped that seeing _her_ would-- no, he wasn’t completely stupid. Maybe he’d hoped that Harry would bring John with her?

“This is _fate_ ,” Harry was saying, still wiggling her shoulders like a mad squirrel. “It has to be! John’s been talking about you _all week_ \-- said he met some bloke named... Sebastian. Who looked like you…” Sherlock could tell when she got it by the way her mouth dropped open. “ _No_.”

“What?”

“ _You_.”

“Me,” Sherlock said. “Very good. Is there anything I need to clear up, or have you go it all?” And then he was bored again, because really, everything was easier bored. Bored meant no surprise, no new spokes in the wheels, nobody turning up ten years later as if they had a right to exist. As if he was the same person.

“But that’s not fair!” Harry spluttered as he turned his back to her. Where had that violin gotten to? “Don’t you think he has a right to know? He was your _friend._ ”

“ _Was_ being the operative word,” Sherlock snapped, turning to her. “Ms. Watson, I am a _very_ busy--”

“I don’t care,” she said stubbornly, crossing her arms. “You’re a miserable idiot. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t say anything.”

 

He stared at her. She _was_ stressed-- face red under a sparse spattering of freckles, eyes bloodshot at the corners, lines in her bottom lip where she’d just about bitten it through. Bruise-like bags under her eyes, nails bit low, knuckles cracking when she bent her fingers against her palms.

 

“Because, Harriet,” Sherlock said after a long moment. “ Ten years is a long time.” And this time, he wasn’t thinking about two boys in a tree-branch fort. He was thinking of a gangly girl with long brown hair, fishing for frogs in a creek in the middle of the summer.

 

But she wouldn’t leave it alone. “What’s that supposed to mean? That it didn’t matter?”

 

Sherlock snorted. “I’m sure it mattered. _Ten years ago_. I assure you, I am not the same person, and would like to be treated as such. I don’t need someone convinced that they know me-- look, I don’t _want_ to know him anymore. Alright? Is that a good enough reason?” Sherlock took a deep breath. It was either convince her now, or have John appearing here, or in the library, or on the bus, yelling about _lies_ and _childhoods_ and _friendship_ , and he really, truly, wasn’t interested in either. “I’m sure it’s all fine, and lovely, but it’s nothing to do with me, and I’d like to keep it that way. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a bit of cleaning to do.” Sherlock herded a flustered Harry through the door, pushing her across the threshold.

 

“The little boy I knew wasn’t a hermit,” she called behind her, hands held against the door frame. Sherlock paused.

 

“Exactly,” he said quietly. He started to close the door, but stopped, midway. “Promise me?”

 

“Promise you what?” Harry asked, and her frown was too much like John’s for him to look at her head-on.

 

“Promise me you won’t say anything to him? Please.” He risked a peek up, and then felt absolutely ridiculous and corrected his posture. It was Harry, not the queen.

 

She sighed, looking for all the world like a disappointed parent. “I promise, Sherlock. But,” she added, stopping the door with her boot. “You think he doesn’t remember you, that he forgot you completely. He didn’t, Sherlock. He never did. He couldn’t.” She reached out and straightened his hair, smile crooked and bright. “You’re his best friend. Even if you’ve forgotten it.”

 

After she left and Sherlock closed the door, slid against it to land on the floor, relieved as a marathon runner, he felt the ghost of her fingers in his hair. It was the strangest sensation, this whole ‘caring’ lark. One he could _certainly_ , he decided, running a hand through his hair to put it back to normal, do without.

 

-*-

 

There was an answer after five rings, right before John could decide to give up and call it a day. “Hello?”

 

“Yes, hi. I was... told to call this number. For tutoring?”

 

“And who’s speaking?” The voice on the other end was maddeningly familiar, and John answered its questions automatically, because it wasn’t the kind of voice that would take a ‘no’ lightly.

 

“John Watson. Recommended by Harry-- Harriet?”

 

“Oh, I’m _terribly_ sorry,” the voice said, so smooth it was syrupy, and John could almost _swear_ he heard a laugh. “You’ve got the wrong number. Have you got a pen? Good. Write this down.” John wondered what the odds were of him _not_ regretting this come this time next week. All the same, when the voice bid him a terse ‘Good day!’ he reached for the notepad and dialed the other number. It wasn’t like there was much to lose.

   
It only took four rings for the next person to answer. “Hello?”

“Hi, I’m calling about a tutor?”

“Any particular subject matter?”  
             
“Yes, I-- Hang on. Who’s speaking?”

“Shouldn’t _I_ be asking that question?” he asked dryly, and John could _hear_ the eyebrow raise in his voice. He grinned.

“John. Watson. Is this... Sorry, but is this Sebastian?”

There was silence on the other end. And then: “ _Bollocks._ ”

-*-

  
Fate was funny, but Mycroft, Sherlock thought glumly, staring down at the phone in his hand as if it were about to leap up and devour him entirely, was not. In the _slightest_. He had the sort of humor that involved the rapid takeover of foreign countries, and _not_ the sort that did any good at parties.

“Hello? Hel _lo_?”

Right. Someone was still on that. Sherlock lifted the phone back to his ear. “Sorry, you were saying?”

“Who is this?” He sounded too close to laughter to be truly impatient. Sherlock did his best to resist a smile.

“This is he. Hello, John.”

“Right. I thought so. Um, so... you do tutoring, then?” Hopeful, now.  Sherlock readjusted the phone to rest in the bony crook of his neck. He shuffled his hands through a pile at his feet. His violin was missing again.

“Yes, I do. But only in certain subjects.” Not this pile, then.

“What don’t you offer?”

“Well-- Art. I find it irritating.” There was a muffled laugh from the other end. Sherlock’s hands stilled. Not this pile either.

“Doesn’t that just mean you aren’t any good?”

“On the contrary. I’m _very_ good.” Silence. Had he said something wrong? Sherlock cleared his throat, putting his hand back to the phone and straightening up to his feet. “What did you need help with?”

“Physics, embarrassingly enough. Do you do that?” Trick question. He knew Sherlock did that. Sherlock had practically _admitted_ it to him, which left him in a corner. Admit it, take John as a student-- tutoree, he corrected automatically-- or deny, deny, _deny_ and back away, and, perhaps, never see him again.

Then again, he’d always been a little bit self-destructive. Also unlucky.

“Yes,” his mouth said before he could regulate it (he had to have a roll of duct tape around here somewhere, _had_ to). “I do that.”

“Great,” John said, and Sherlock could imagine him smiling, a little uneven, just enough for it to be imperfect and perfectly honest. “When can we meet?”

“Tuesday morning, ten-ish, at the library, can you make that?” Sherlock rattled off, before he could regain the common sense he was sure he had somewhere in the kitchen/bedroom/living room. And then whapped himself on the head with the nearest hard object. It looked, he thought, blinking through the black spots clouding his vision, quite a lot like a brick.

“I can,” John affirmed, and, more happily than Sherlock thought he had _any_ reason to be, considering, chirped, “I’ll see you Tuesday, Sebastian,” and hung up.

Sherlock let the phone fall from his hands and wondered when, exactly, life turned into this mess.

-*-

 

“Right,” John said gleefully, rubbing his hands together. “How do I do this garbage.”

“It’s not _garbage_ , John. It’s a vital part of your science and maths curriculum, and, as such--”

John held up a hand. “I’m stopping you there, because I am _not_ listening.” John only laughed as Sherlock sighed, sinking his elbows onto the table and laying his chin across splayed fingers.

When he’d arrived, exactly at ten, Sherlock had been at a table in the middle of the library, papers in four separate stacks, focused intently on the calculator in his hands. It was certainly easier to focus on the calculator than it was to look up at the sound of a chair moving across linoleum. He should’ve guessed that John would be punctual; it was written all over the straight cuffs of his jeans and the edges of his fingernails.

They’d dispensed of pleasantries and formalities quickly, and Sherlock had handed him his coursework, certain problems underlined in red and others notated in blue, and set him to work. Which, really, didn’t help much. Because it meant Sherlock was stuck looking at him for half an hour, watching the crinkle at the outside of his eyes and the crease across the bridge of his nose, the way his lips moved as he read a problem out loud, the slight curl along the edges of his mouth when he got a problem right.

The wooden sword he carried in the woods, when he declared _this and this and this_ in the name of King John and King Sherlock.

“Well?” John demanded, staring at him expectantly. Sherlock blinked back.

“Well, what?”

John thrust the problem at him, crossing his arms and leaning back. “That.” He tapped his pencil twice against the sheet. Sherlock frowned. The utter lack of _appreciation_ \-- “Oh, don’t give me that,” John said, and if Sherlock didn’t know any better, he would call it a pout. “You’re a terrible tutor. How is making me do my coursework alone helping?”

Sherlock felt his mouth drop open. “I don’t-- I didn’t--”

“Face it,” John said, voice low, smirking. “You--”

“Oi, look, it’s the _freak_ \--”

Sherlock had read about that feeling, when your whole life passes in quick succession, snapshots of everything you didn’t want to remember emptied before your eyes. Reading about it and actually _experiencing_ it were a mile apart.

“John,” he said smoothly, getting to his feet. They were one, two, four rows behind Sherlock and John, two paths to take, quickest path, four minutes, maximum, two and a half minimum, one minute and forty five seconds for Sherlock to figure out how to get out of this without anything given away. Likelihood of success: 35%. “Do me a favor?”

“What is it?” John asked, startled. “I didn’t mean to insult you, if you’re--”

“I printed something earlier, for you to look at. Fundamentals of wave particle duality. Fetch it, would you?” He grabbed his scarf and wrapped it, twice, once around his head and once his neck. One minute, fifteen seconds.

“Are you leaving?” John asked, oblivious to the crude whistle from behind him. Sherlock was not. One minute seven.

“Only for a moment. I’ll be back. Just look over the sheet.” Bag, check. Sheets of paper-- he shoved those underneath John’s textbook, with a quick smile that he hoped looked somewhat apologetic. “Got to dash. Give me--” Fifty-four seconds. “Five minutes. Ten max.” Sherlock walked away from the table, cutting through the library cross-wise. He could hear the older boys laughing, quietly, and he was unsurprised when they started following him. Mostly because it seemed as if none of them washed particularly often, and the odor of them carried several meters farther than they did.

“Freak,” one of them sing-songed under his breath. “We’ve got something to give you, haven’t we?” Sherlock slammed through the door at the back of the library. Alleyway, nowhere for anyone passing on the street to see. Brilliant.

There were four of them, this time, and, Sherlock thought, none of them looked particularly honorable enough to shy away from an unfair fight. Where _had_ gallantry gone? Fine. He unwrapped his scarf in one smooth movement and threw it over a fire-escape. He would fight them, and he would win. Likelihood of success: 74%.

That was the funny thing about odds-- they tended to be correct. And, so, when Sherlock left the alleyway to enter the library from the front entrance (leaving four considerably bruised and unconscious bodies behind him) he was short one button, zero teeth, and, after a quick watch-check, time-- thirteen minutes, not ten. He frowned. He was getting rusty.

John was still there, and Sherlock spent the remaining twenty minutes of their tutoring session in comparative peace. Of course, John was still incompetent. But one couldn’t have everything.

The second session was at a cafe, and John bought them pie.

-*-

  
 _Beep_. “Sherlock, this is Mycroft. I trust your tutoring sessions are going well? ...Yes, well, you never talk to mummy anymore, and she’s asked me to check up on you, and you haven’t returned any of my calls. She was very pleased to hear that John has returned. If you’d like for me to _stop_ updating her regularly, feel free to call me back.” _Beep_.

 _Beep_. “Hey, Sherlock. I just thought you might want to know that John was talking about you again today-- oh, sorry. _Sebastian_. He likes you, you know. He’d probably like you even _more_ if you told him who you were. Oh. This is Harry, by the way. Think about what I told you.” _Beep_.

 _Beep_. “Hi, Sebastian. Are we still meeting tomorrow? Call me back.” _Beep_.

-*-

 

The third session was fingers fighting over a dropped pencil and John doing nothing and making Sherlock smile.

 

The fourth session was pizza sauce dropped on a fact sheet and John ‘confiscating’ his scarf for safe-keeping when sauce continued to fly.

 

The fifth was accompanied by easy silence and prolonged eye contact. And Harry.

  
The session was halfway through and John was in the middle mocking a reference Sherlock had no understanding of whatsoever, but he just nodded and smiled whenever appropriate. And then Harry was walking up the table they had claimed, settled under a tree. John didn’t notice Sherlock stiffen, eyes trained on the girl walking towards them, all bluster and intent.

“John?” she called. John fell silent, twisting around.

“Hey!” he said, surprised enough for both of them. Sherlock felt suddenly and intensely sick. “What’re you doing here?”  
“Oh, you know.” She shrugged. “I was just passing through, going for a smoke. You?” This was directed at Sherlock, and he smiled (grimaced, probably; discomfort tended to do odd things to his smiles).

“Tutoring,” he said stiffly, gesturing down at the papers between them. John nodded.  
“Harry, you know Sebastian--”  
“Of course,” she said curtly, waving John’s words away, eyes still trained on Sherlock. “I hope you’re learning.”  
             
“He is,” Sherlock answered sharply. “A lot. And it’s going as I expected it to.”  
“Really?” she bit back, eyes narrowing. “And how’s that, besides a whole lot of _rubbish_ \--”

“Long history, is it?” John asked, glancing between the two of them. He grinned as they turned their glares on him, raising both hands in surrender. “Hey, whoah. Just asking. You sound like you’ve known each other for a while.”

“Oh, _yes_ ,” Harry said, voice acerbic and sneer abrasive, and she wasn’t even _trying_ to be discreet, was she? “We’re just the _best_ of friends. Have fun, boys.” She walked away, leaving a trouble-shaped hole behind her. In his head, Sherlock groaned and let his head fall into his arms and everything just _went away_. In the real world, he cleared his throat and prepared to get back to business. John, thought, clearly wasn’t.

“Best of friends,” he mused, playing with the pen in his hands ( _mine_ , Sherlock noted, watching the silver disappear and reappear from between John’s fingers) and blatantly avoiding his coursework. “My sister’s not your best friend, is she? Who is?”

Sherlock shrugged, refusing to look up. “Why? Who’s yours?” He watched John’s motion still through his peripheral vision, the pen pressed against his palm, eyes on Sherlock, daring him to look up. This was one of those Bad Ideas that bred action so fast it made his head hurt.

 

“I had one,” he said softly, and Sherlock could feel his ears heating up under John’s scrutiny. “He was brilliant. A little younger than me, smartest kid I knew-- I thought you were him, when I first met you. But he’d _never_ have changed his name to Sebastian-- no offense.”

  
Sherlock forced himself to look up, forced himself to smirk. “None taken, John. What does this have to do with physics?”

“Nothing, I guess,” he shrugged. Disappointment was spelled out in the steep slope of his shoulders, the small frown pulling at the corners of his lips. Usually, with Sherlock, he smiled. “It just... That--” he gestured from Sherlock to the bubble of air Harry left behind. “Reminded me of him. When I was ten, we got into a fight-- we were kids, it lasted all of an hour-- and he climbed up a tree and refused to come down, all because I refused to play pirates. All I wanted to be was a bloody knight in shining armour...” John chuckled. “He only came down when I promised he could be a pirate captain, and that I’d just be a gallantly-dressed first mate.”

“Pirates,” Sherlock said awkwardly, answering smile a little too slow. “Quaint.”  
“I love pirates,” John said softly, eyes on the pen. He rolled it slowly in his palms. Sherlock looked up, and their eyes locked.

Once, when Sherlock was sixteen years old, he had seen a car crash. Had seen the moment both drivers locked eyes through the windshields, when they both understood what would happen and what would be inevitable. If he had to define the word ‘inevitable,’ it would be that: that moment, when no other way could possibly open, and where things would collide in twisted metal and broken glass and flames licking over sidewalks, and maybe you’d be able to walk away from the crash, but you’d never be able to leave the memory behind. And when the two cars became one crash, when two drivers became a part of one statistic, that would be it, that would be the end, and there would be no room for retreat.

A car crash is what Sherlock saw when John didn’t look away, and when every word he could have said dried up in the back of his throat and blew away into the tree branches.

John blinked first. Transfixion broken. Time wasted, thirty-five seconds.

“Right, well,” Sherlock said quickly, clearing his throat. “Molecular motion--”

“I’m starving,” John declared, stretching his arms over his head and rolling out his neck. “What’re you doing for dinner?”

“Eating,” Sherlock said blankly, footing lost. Only John. “Why?”

“Come with me?” He grinned at Sherlock’s expression (which was, he reflected, probably caught somewhere midway between shocked, boggled, perplexed, and embarrassed.) and stood from his bench. “There’s a little Indian place-- it’s my favorite. Come on.”

When he held out a hand to pull Sherlock from his seat, he held on for three and three quarters of a second longer than necessary. Sherlock filed that away alongside with everything else he had no place thinking of.

When they walked, Sherlock also filed away the number of times their shoulders brushed. It wasn’t important.

Fourteen. It was a long walk.

-*-

 

Perhaps their legs brushed under the table. Perhaps Sherlock smiled and, maybe, _perhaps_ , properly _grinned_ , every time he made John laugh. Perhaps John made Sherlock laugh, a small, growing thing that sounded just as surprised as Sherlock looked every time it wrung itself out of his throat. Perhaps John fed Sherlock a spoon of his curry (“I guarantee you that you couldn’t stomach it. It’s pretty hot.” “Oh, please.”) and Sherlock stole half of his water (“I told you it was hot, you idiot.” “...”). Perhaps they spoke of life and not of love, and perhaps they did that thing called _connecting_.

That mattered less than Sherlock returning home to three new voice-mails (two from Mycroft, threatening to call Mummy down here, one from Harry sounding irritated and blaming Sherlock for global warming and malaria and small animal death) and realizing, slowly, that his flat was a mess. And that, perhaps, whatever was going on with John was a little bit worse than a childhood flight of fancy.

So if he found his violin and played “Flight of the Bumblebee” until his fingers went numb and the instrument slipped from his grasp, he really wasn’t to blame.

 

-*-

  
“... So leave a message!” _Beep_. Sherlock took a breath. “Hi, John. Listen. I need to tell you that I--” He snapped the phone shut. I _what? I lied to you because I thought it was ridiculous and you were probably imaginary and I didn’t want to disappoint you. I told you my name was Sebastian because if I told you my name was Sherlock you’d think of a child and it’s been ten years and I didn’t want all of-- I didn’t realize you’d-- I didn’t... I figured you wouldn’t remember me, and--  
_  
Sherlock threw his phone with all the pent up fury of a Pekingese, and it hit the far wall with a disappointingly calm _thud_ and slipped its way into the Thursday Afternoon pile. It would take him hours to find that.

As if on cue, his phone started ringing.

 _Your mum thinks that you're sad_   
_And that your living alone,_   
_and your friends think if you're sad_   
_You should call them more._

That would be John, then. He stared at the pile. It was the sort of pile that looked significantly more frightening in the nine o’clock sunlight.

 _But the truth is_   
_That you never need someone to comfort you_   
_Oh, you never need someone to comfort you._

Frightening enough to almost inspire him to _clean_ , and that was saying something. Clean, or be smothered by the mighty might of Tuesday Afternoon, all black socks and English papers. He would be throttled to death by Shakespeare and argyle. It would be a disgrace. It would probably make the papers. He quite liked that idea. Oh, god. He was getting delirious; he’d never make the paper; a gossip rag, maybe the school’s paper, but not anything with _clout._

 _And we will never leave this place,_   
_And we need never feel alone,_   
_And we will learn to feel quite clean_   
_In this new skin that we have grown_   
_Because our young and healthy bones_   
_Would never lead us astray._

The phone, blessedly, stopped. And then beeped-- a message. Sherlock slumped over, pulling his knees up to his chest. No. He’d check that when he felt a little less ridiculous. Or alternatively, he corrected, pulling the miniscule Wednesday pile closer to him to pillow his head on quantum physics, never. He didn’t ever have to call anyone. He could die here, in his piles and his violin (which had run off with the new rosin he’d bought, he just knew it) and absorb particles and theories through his body and everything would be lovely.

( _Beep_. “Hey, it’s John. Uh, your message cut off? So if you wanted to talk, I’ll be in the library all day tomorrow-- biology final-- so come find me, yeah? Laters. _Beep_.)

 

(The floor was suddenly very, very comfortable.)

                                                                         -*-

 _Beep_. “Sherlock, it’s been two days. Stop being a petulant child and go eat something. I _will_ give John your address.” _Beep_.

 _Beep_. “Sherlock... um, I hope nothing I said insulted you enough to make you an _actual_ hermit, because you’re strange enough as it is, but John won’t stop-- look. I don’t care if you’re Sherlock, or Sherly, or Sebastian, or _Lola_ , but for godsakes, let your friends _be_ your friends, you arsehole.” _Beep_.

 _Beep._ “Hey, mate, it’s John. I haven’t seen you around. I hope you haven’t gotten sick or something... Text or call, let me know if I need to bring you up some soup. Alright, I hope I see you later.” _Beep_.

                                                                         -*-

When Sherlock finally answers the phone, it’s a Tuesday afternoon and, as far as he’s concerned, he has nothing more to lose. Besides, he’s hungry.

“Hello?”

“I have _never_ gone by Lola. Nor do I intend to.”

  
“Really? It suits you,” Harry said dryly. “So what’re you doing?”

“Rotting into the floorboards.”

“Ha-ha.” She snorted. “You’re an idiot.”

“Your opinion is noted.”

“God, Sherlock. Why are you being like this?” Sherlock felt the ghost of a smile scratch at his cheekbones.

“It’s what’s easiest,” he explained, because, he figured, Harry wasn’t the sort to leave well-enough alone. And he was well. Enough. He would be, anyways. It was just a matter of removing a dependence. He’d done it before. “I don’t want to see John right now, and this is the easiest way to do it.”

“Avoiding a problem doesn’t make it go away,” Harry said softly. “And he’s not a problem. He cares about you, Sherlock. More’s the pity,” she added, but she said it lightly, as if it were supposed to make Sherlock laugh. He sighed into the phone.

“Well, he shouldn’t. It’s unnecessary.” Fully and completely. Regardless of whether or not the words attached to him somewhere beneath his sternum, and stuck their feet into his chest cavity, deep enough to make his head hurt. He closed his eyes against the slow-burning pressure.

“Well, I’m sorry you feel that way. Because I gave him your address.”

Sherlock’s eyes flew open. “You did what?”

“You heard me,” Harry said smugly, the cat to Sherlock’s ruffled canary. “And he’ll be over there this evening. Unless you’d prefer to meet him out somewhere?”

“Fine,” Sherlock said finally, just short of speechless. “Well played.” And it _was_. Who would’ve guessed? Lovely, kind, aggravating Harry Watson.

“I thought so.”

“ _But_ , I’m only going to tell him I’ll be cutting our arrangement short.”

“We’ll see if he can’t convince you.”

Sherlock didn’t say goodbye before hanging up, because Harry was sneaky and conniving and he was sure that, under any other circumstances, he’d find her spectacularly charming.

                                                                         -*-

Sherlock was directed to an Italian restaurant opposite campus. It was... cozy. He could see candles in the glass from the street, walking with his hands tucked as deeply into his coat pockets as he could manage. He spotted John farther up the street, looking considerably chilled and, Sherlock noted, _without a twinge of any sort_ , with Sherlock’s scarf knotted once around his neck.

When he saw Sherlock, he waved and walked over, meeting him halfway and unwinding the scarf. “This,” he said, his laugh coming out in a white puff of winter breath, “belongs to you.” He draped it around Sherlock’s head and down his shoulders, letting his hands rest there for a moment as they continued to walk. “Wow. You look...”

“If you say awful, I’ll never speak to you again.” He should say awful. If he said awful, Sherlock could cite a perfectly plausible reason for running away.

 

John twisted his lips up into a sideways smile. “Will ‘cold’ do?”

Sherlock nodded graciously. “Cold will do fine.” It seemed the persistent kindness was inevitable. He opened the door and gestured in front of him. “After you.”

It _was_ cozy. The restaurant was small enough, but not cramped. If Sherlock’s room were a respectable food establishment, it would look something like this place, sofas and tables from wall to wall, with barely enough room to walk through them all. As accustomed as he was to gravity and sanity-defying obstacle course, he couldn’t spot a clear way through.

 

That didn’t stop a tall, balding man from walking over when John waved, wide mouth already breaking into an untempered smile.

“Angelo,” John said, nodding at him.

“ _John Watson_.” Angelo grinned and clapped him on the shoulder warmly. “How’re you doing? How’s your sister? She was in here with a lovely girl the other day...”

John grinned back, and Sherlock jumped when he felt a hand land on his shoulder. “Could my friend and I grab a seat? Or are you all full?”

“Never!” Angelo gasped, and then winked and smiled cheekily, as if the very thought was _ridiculous_. “And he looks like he needs a few good meals. You come along.”

Sherlock followed, frowning (not as deeply as he could be-- John’s hand was very _comfortable_ up there, and he wasn’t quite sure how he felt about that). He _had_ eaten... hadn’t he? He’d found a can of _something_ in the Needs Washing But It’s Not Imperative pile. Ah. But there had been no can- _opener_ , so he’d just thrown it into a different pile and gone back to sleep.

 

Angelo dropped them at a lovely little corner table, along with two tall glasses of water and two dusty gold menus.

“So what’ve you been doing for the past three days?” John asked when they were settled, lips moving around his straw.  Sherlock shrugged. He didn’t think it would sound very ‘alright’ to say sleeping, sitting, and playing the violin. He was fairly certain _most_ people made it outside at least once a day. He went for the watered-down version.

“Sleeping. I was... laid up.” Curled up, more accurately. “I didn’t much feel like going anywhere near the rest of the world.”

“Even me?” John raised his eyebrows. “You must’ve felt awful.”

“Well, _yes._ And you have a very high opinion of your own self importance.” Sherlock snorted, tugging his water towards him. He kept his eyes on the streak of water that the glass’ condensation had left behind on the table. No eye contact, no dependence. Easy as discarding needles. But he could hardly plug his ears against the sound of John’s laughter, or even stop the answering smile from forming. It was his body’s automatic response to any sort of proximity to John. He just had to accept that. It wasn’t feeling, it was science.

“Sebastian,” John chuckled, “who do you spend most of your time with? Consecutively, I mean, and not just your other tutorees. They don’t count.”

“You’re one of my tutorees,” Sherlock pointed out.  
             
“Yes,” John conceded, “But how many tutorees do you have dinner with?”

Sherlock thought for a moment, searching for a way out of the question. There wasn’t one. “One?”

“Correct--” John broke off in a laugh when the straw he had pulled out to point in Sherlock’s direction spattered water across his cheek. Sherlock shook his head in surprise, droplets spraying from his hair.

“Just get food,” John said, replacing his straw and clearing his throat. “You look half starved.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Sherlock said stiffly, looking away. The water on the table had formed two distinct lines, running parallel to the wood grain.

Angelo had impeccable timing. Before John could get a chance to argue, he swept in, dropping a breadbasket between them. “Ah, but look at this! So dark! I get you a candle, make it more romantic.”

“No, it’s not--” Sherlock started, just as John said, “Thanks.” They eyed each other as Angelo swept away and back, eyed each other over a tall red candle, tension making the wick burn brighter.

“You’re not,” John said finally. It was foolish for Sherlock to think that the conversation would end there. “You’re the sort of person who needs someone to take care of them, because you’re utterly careless.” John nodded at his own words, staring at Sherlock as if daring him to argue. All Sherlock did was raise a careful eyebrow, refusing to look away from the curling candlewick.

“I’m sorry. Are you volunteering?”

“Yes.”

He said it so quickly, so devoid of any tension, any hesitation, that, Sherlock reflected, he couldn’t really have been surprised at what happened next. Instead, he stayed still as John, eyes intent and resolved, pushed the candle to the side, leaned across the table and pressed his lips firmly against Sherlock’s.

It wasn’t a particularly passionate kiss. It was the sort of kiss that was meant to convey something important, like, _I’m here_ and _you moron_ and _let me help_ and _I’m **right here**_ **,** in the pressure of lips and the slightest bit of breath exchanged.

No, Sherlock wasn’t surprised by it. Alarmed, and embarrassed, and confused, and, maybe, _possibly_ , _happy_ , but not surprised.  
             
Sherlock blinked, mouth slightly open as John pulled back. He didn’t understand how they got here. Were there signs he had missed? Surely there were no signs _he_ gave? “You just--” And there his mouth went, again, with neither warning nor permission. “You kissed me.”

John cleared his throat. “Yes, well.” Discomfort-- he fidgeted in his seat, fingers pulling at a loose thread on his jumper. But he held Sherlock’s eye as Sherlock looked at him, looked at John the way John tended to look at him-- put himself in a position to care, in a position to wonder what _could_ happen, if he had leaned further forwards. If he had kissed back.

“That was...” If he had _kissed back_... He cleared his throat. “Nice.”

John’s answering smile was slow and glowing. “Yeah?”

Sherlock nodded.

Neither saw Angelo take a step back from where he was approaching their table, smiling wide. _This_ is why people came to Angelo’s. He could sell love on the sidewalk. He sighed, walking back towards the kitchen and tossing his towel over his shoulder. If only he could market that.

                                                                         -*-

  
“I know what you were going to say, by the way,” John said, later, as they walked down the street in the dark, yellow lamps turning the top of John’s hair gold. Sherlock liked it like this. It made it look softer.

  
“Hm?”

  
“You had something to tell me,” he reminded, and Sherlock stilled, even as John slipped a hand, already so comfortable, around one of Sherlock’s.

  
“Did I?” he asked carefully. They were less than half a block from Sherlock’s door. If he could make it there before John registered that this was, in fact, a rapid retreat-- and then John’s hand tightened a little bit and he realized that the odds of that succeeding over anything more than the fifteen-second head start did not exist. And maybe he didn’t want them to, because there was something kind of novel about the feel of a palm against his, fingers twined alongside his own.

John pulled him up short by said fingers, backing him up against the lamp post. His teeth glinted in the light when he leaned closer, smile sharp. “You’re an idiot.”

Sherlock bristled. “I beg your pardon--” he started, but John cut him off, pressing his mouth against his, and Sherlock could feel the curve of his smile against his lips and let John ease them open. But maybe John really didn’t think that Sherlock cared or would react or would _stop_ _thinking_ , for a moment, because he gasped when Sherlock pulled him forward by the back of the neck, fingers curling in his hair and, yes, it was just as soft as it looked.

John pulled away first _, again_ , and laughed, light and breathless, at Sherlock’s automatic noise of discontent. “Should we--” He gestured towards Sherlock’s waiting front door. There was a different reason to rush inside, now, and Sherlock’s hand shook a little at the keyhole.

They didn’t need their personal space anymore, once they made it past the doorway, and they shucked it like old skins, pressed against each other in one long, unbroken curve and Sherlock took as much time as he needed to familiarize himself with the contours of John’s mouth.

There was a couch here, somewhere, but he couldn’t be bothered to look or to fish around, so it was the second (third? Fifth? There was a lot he couldn’t feel with John’s hands tracing circles up his back.) jolt of pain up his leg that had him turning around, swearing, shoving things to the floor and under the shelves as quickly as he could manage.

“Good lord,” John mutters, and when Sherlock turns his smile is almost _wicked_ , it’s so bright. “Don’t clean up on my account--” Sherlock saw the violin before he did, and stepped into place, so when John tripped, he fell into Sherlock’s arms, and both landed back onto the newly-cleared couch (it was green-- had it always been _green_?) undamaged.

“I know who you are, by the way,” John murmured, Sherlock occupied with tracing the line of his jaw with his lips. “You’re Sherlock Holmes. And also a terrible liar. And a hermit. A very messy hermit.”

Sherlock pulled back, gasping for oxygen and a dose of reality, because really. “You-” He glared at John,  who smiled cheekily up at him. “You _knew_? And I am not.”

John rolled his eyes. “What? A bad liar, a hermit, or Sherlock? Because any way you put it, you absolutely are. Face it,” and Sherlock figured he might as well, if ‘facing it’ led to John doing _that_ with his mouth against Sherlock’s neck. “You’re Sherlock Holmes, and I’m John Watson, and _we_...” He laughed as he stretched his legs out, sending another piece of _something_ crashing to the floor. “Really need to get you a new place.”  
             
Sherlock couldn’t hear him. He had discovered a new fascination with the shape of collarbones under jumpers. Especially ugly, striped jumpers that hid so much lovely soft skin underneath them.

 

Stupid jumpers.

                                                                         -*-

“How long have you known?”

  
“What? That ‘Sebastian’ didn’t exist? Come on. Give me a _little_ credit. My memory’s not _that_ bad.”

  
“How _long,_ John?”

  
“... Fine. When you had coffee instead of tea. That café, remember?”

  
“Well, of course _I_ remember. I haven’t got the memory of _mmph_ \--”

  
“That’s better. Anyway. I figured you had to have a good reason for not saying anything-- mind you, it was killing Harry, and she damn near beheaded me when I told her I’d known. But you didn’t, did you? Your reasoning was just you being an idiot.”

“John?”

  
“Hm?”

  
“Stop talking.”

 **End.**

 

**Author's Note:**

> Music note: 'You're No God,' Laura Marling


End file.
